Beautiful Secrets
by GivenThePuzzleIWillDance
Summary: Sherlock and John begin an investigation that will ultimately draw them closer, but there is much for them to sift through to get to the base of it all. When Sherlock discovers a hidden talent of John's - a talent John never planned on sharing - John reacts in a very not-John way. Est. Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**I'm Back! Okay, so that was a little cheesy, but you get the gist. Sorry for not posting anything in a while. Things have been crazy with school and work and such. This story is not cannon with the series re-writes that 221bSuperPotterWhoLocked and I are CONTINUING. That's right. If you read and enjoyed It Takes A Bomb, get ready for more. We are continuing with A Scandal In Belgravia and will have that posted eventually. _Eventually_.**

**This is a story that came to the surface while I was in class one day and would not leave me alone. The fabulous starrysummernights has been helping me edit and revise this story, and I want to thank her sincerely once again for her help. This story would be pants without her tremendous help.**

**This story, Beautiful Secrets, is a gift from me and starrysummernights, and is dedicated to my best friend, 221bSuperPotterWhoLocked. If you're reading this, you ought to know that she is a wonderful story teller, the perfect Sherlock to my John, and an even better friend. 221bSPWL, thank you for all you've done for me and for your support. I hope you enjoy this lovely Johnlock tale. Love you! :)**

* * *

The house that Sherlock and John were investigating in which the crime had taken place would have been more efficiently described as an estate. From the minute Sherlock and John set foot in the ornate foyer and followed Lestrade down the hallway and to the sitting room– where there was the body of a wealthy young woman, the owner of the house, lay prostrate in a pool of her own blood – each had experienced an entirely different feeling.

Sherlock seemed to brush off the intricacy of the home, the ornate fixtures, and the general lavishness as commonplace, whereas John walked in reverence and almost in awe of the décor. There were few places he'd been in that were more opulent than the home he currently found himself in and he couldn't help gaping just a bit at the sight of priceless paintings, hundred year old sculptures, and shining marble floors.

One look at Sherlock and his blasé expression, and John tried to reel in his dismay so as not to appear like a pauper country bumpkin.

He stood back and watched as Sherlock swooped over to the corpse and began his usual process of leaving everyone else in the dark while he charged ahead, deductions ablaze.

He worked for a few minutes, positively dancing around the corpse. He snapped out his magnifying glass and examined various parts of the dead woman, picking up her hands and narrowing his eyes.

"Tell me about her. Give me her history. What have you found out?" Sherlock demanded, straightening and glancing enquiringly at Lestrade.

"Her name is Nora Rank." Lestrade said informed, "She's the daughter of a famous conductor that lives out in Sydney. She checks out. No criminal records, no misdemeanors. She'd been top of her class in primary school all the way through uni. Apparently she was well-loved by her peers; at least the ones that discovered her and called us in."

"Check the house for a piano and a lessons registrar. I need names."

"There's a piano in the room across from here. Looks like it was the music room. She gave lessons?"

"Her hands. The joints at her knuckles are slightly swollen. The synovial fluid hasn't been released of carbon dioxide in quite some time, so we know she's probably been trying to break the habit."

"Habit?"

"Popping her knuckles." John interjected.

"Yes. So she didn't or was trying to stop popping her knuckles. Some people believe that popping leads to arthritis, when in fact it does not. The tips of her fingers: slightly calloused, but smooth. Her nails are also short and tidy. Regularly manicured; nails filed within an inch of their lives. Most girls don't do that as often as they paint them."

Donovan looked over to Sherlock with a small glare and handed Lestrade a registrar.

"At least the girls that do practice nail care." Sherlock amended. "So. She files her nails and keeps them tidy. Very tidy. Her fingers are calloused: she plays an instrument. The callouses aren't rough or thick, so a stringed instrument is out. She has an inhaler, with a frankly alarming prescription, sitting on her desk right there; so not enough lung capacity to handle a wind or brass instrument. That leaves something with just her hands. Piano it is, being one of the most common instruments to find in a house this size. I see Donovan found the registrar."

"Okay, so she played the piano. How do you know she gave lessons? That could've easily been a guest list or something." Lestrade shrugged.

"She lost her fiancée and has nothing left to do."

"Sherlock…"

"_Her desk_. She has a few photos of herself and another young woman. These are romantic pictures, not merely friendship." Sherlock deduced, glancing at John with a small smile that was appreciatively returned, "There are three. The first one looks like an early picture. Holding hands, getting comfortable in their relationship, of being together. Second is a Christmas photo, going by the obvious ghastly antlers and wooly red jumpers. Then there's this last picture that has been turned down. Probably out of grief. It's the other girl on her knee with a ring box. Obvious what's going on there."

"Why grief?" Donovan interjected, "Couldn't they have, I dunno, broken up or something?"

"I remember the other girl's face. Saw it in the paper. Car crash – no survivors."

"Oh god…" John sighed, his sympathy for the newly dead woman surging.

"So this young woman, who has spent several years planning her life with her significant other, loses her in a fatal car crash and has to cope. She plays her piano. Sooner or later, she has to interact with people, so she cleans herself up and starts giving lessons."

"Brilliant." John breathed, somewhat sadly.

Sherlock glanced over to his lover, noticing the distant look in his blue eyes.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked quietly, frowning, wondering what had placed such a sad look on his face.

"What? Yeah. I'm fine." John tried to smile - _tried_ being the operative word - and the genius wasn't entirely convinced, but dropped the subject for the moment. Even _he_ knew that now, in front of Lestrade and the others, was not the time to seriously query John about such tricky things like emotions.

"All right. Anderson, dust the piano and doorknobs for prints. Any and all the prints you can get. We need anyone that has been in this house within the past twenty four hours that isn't on our team." Lestrade cut in, "John, think you could take a look at the body and see what happened?"

John quickly snapped out of his stupor and put on a pair of latex gloves. Ever so gently, he turned the body over and steeled himself against the heavy, metallic stench of blood. The sight was more grisly to be considered ordinary for their usual murder cases.

The young lady, blond and approximately 162 centimeters, had been ripped open by a dull blade. Her skin was carved in the shape of a large "X" that cut deep and wide enough for internal organs to gleam under the overhead lights. Her wrists had been sliced, deep enough for her to bleed out, which had been one of the major causes of death. On her once alabaster skin, dark circles draped under ringed eyes and deep gashes were made slashed along across her cheekbones.

John cringed and laid the woman back on her face. He shook his head.

"Bled out. She was sliced open with a dull instrument and left to die." He said solemnly, his voice strained.

Sherlock, looking at John, decided that it was time to have a chat with his blogger.

"If it makes any difference, Detective Inspector, I'd like to have a look around for further evidence. Come along, John." He said, motioning for John to follow him out the door as he walked.

John nodded at Lestrade and made his way out of the room with Sherlock. After a few moments of walking, they came to the largest of the hallways that which led to the stairwell. John made to continue walking, but very quickly found himself with a face full of Sherlock.

"_Omph_… Sherlock, what the…?"

Sherlock turned around and gently set his hands on either side of John's face.

"What's wrong? You got distracted when I mentioned Nora's fiancée had been killed."

John shook his head and took Sherlock's hands in his own.

"It's nothing, Sherlock. I'm fine." John gave a charming half smile and kissed Sherlock's palm.

"Don't make me deduce you." Sherlock playfully threatened. John rolled his eyes and, peeling himself out of Sherlock's grip, started to climb the stairs that which led to a forked hallway with several bedrooms and a sunroom that connected the halls at the end.

Sherlock followed closely behind, resting his hand on John's hip. After John had fallen down a stairwell eight weeks previous, Sherlock was a little leery of his own firecracker of a lover falling again. John had nearly dislocated his leg in the first fall and fractured his left arm. He didn't like it when John was injured. Not only did John's pain seem to elicit a sympathetic, physical response in himself, but John became as surly as a bear while he was recovering. Doctor's made the worst patients.

John looked back at Sherlock and gently patted the supporting hand.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. Believe me. I don't see any water on these steps so I won't be tripping down them this time."

"Irrelevant." Sherlock sniffed as they continued their trek up the stairs.

Once they reached the top, John looked down the first hall and Sherlock looked through the other. With a knowing look, each of the men took their respective routes – ready for action if need be – and ventured into the rooms.

Sherlock cautiously walked into the first room on the left side and found what was, apparently, Nora and her fiancée's previous room. It was a comfortable looking room with a large canopied bed and a writing desk and walk-in closet. It'd been neglected for a while, judging by the thick coat layer of dust on both the furniture and drapes.

Sherlock walked to the desk and looked over the papers laid atop it. Everything looked to be about a year old at most. There was, however, one place that which had been disrupted of the aging process.

Intrigued, and upon closer inspection, Sherlock found three things to be disturbed.

A letter was had been taken, going by the dust pattern.

A shattered picture frame with the photograph missing.

And, finally, a letter opener lay tossed atop the papers.

Theories started coming together immediately and Sherlock stored them in his mind palace for further consideration. His buzzing thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a familiar sound.

Sherlock exited the discarded bedroom and walked down the hall that which led to the sunroom, where the mysterious sound floated to his ears: someone was playing a few bars on a piano.

As he rounded the corner, he saw found John standing alone.

John, who was leaning slightly awkwardly by the stool of the piano, was running his fingers over the smooth, shining keys. The waning sunlight coming through the windows cast a golden glow on his hair and brought some missing youth to his lightly lined face.

Sherlock, captivated by the sight, held his breath and watched John for a few moments.

John looked down at the instrument and smiled at the nostalgic feeling of his fingers sliding across cool ceramic keys. After a few moments hesitation, he sat down, and placed his hands professionally on the keyboard, and started to play playing a melody he'd never thought he could play again.

After messing up a few times and repositioning his fingers, John finally remembered the pattern and the notes and his fingers glided gracefully across the instrument, emitting a beautiful melody that made his heart soar.

Sherlock looked on and listened in rapture as his blogger once more surprised him. Despite a few flat notes or a sharp that didn't belong, John executed the piece as if he'd performed it multiple times for a crowd. Sherlock watched John sway his body in time to the music, the muscles across his shoulders rippling as his arms moved along the expanse of the piano.

As John came to the crescendo, his mind blanked out and he suddenly forgot the notes that came next. After a few fumbled attempts, John ruefully shook his head and pushed off away from the piano.

When John saw Sherlock standing in the doorway, silently watching him, the genius wasn't sure exactly how high John jumped, but he watched as his blogger stumbled back, falling onto the stool and hitting his arm against the piano.

"Ah..f-"

"John..." Sherlock interrupted and rushed to his blogger, helping him up and brushing him free of dust.

"Why didn't you tell me you were here?" John snapped, feeling extremely self-conscious about Sherlock hearing him play, especially when he was so out of practice.

"Why didn't you tell me you could play?" Sherlock rejoined indignantly, "You were wonderful! Why haven't you said anything before?" His mind was already planning duets they could play, John's piano accompanying his violin. Where they would place a piano in 221B was a small detail, but not a major issue.

"Because, Sherlock. I have reasons." John replied as he took his detective's hand and led them away from the sunroom and the piano.

"John, where are you going? I'm not finished examining the rooms."

"Well, I am. You can stay if you like." John snapped, letting go of Sherlock's hand and moving down the stairs at an alarming pace.

"John, be careful!"

Sherlock's warning went completely ignored as John moved swiftly down the stairs - making it to the bottom without mishap. He kept walking, out of the great hall and out towards the street where Lestrade and Anderson were discussing the prints they'd found.

Sherlock stood still for a few moments, gazing after his lover, before quickly going back to his work.

What could be John's problem? He'd been surprised - absurdly so - when he saw Sherlock. Of course, Sherlock could understand a reaction like that to anyone else; but _him_? He and John were lovers and confidants. Why would John react so severely to Sherlock simply listening to him play? Honestly, if a man were to play an instrument in a secluded part of a home - that was not his own - with his detective lover so close by - within earshot! - wouldn't he expect someone to come looking in? Especially the aforementioned detective lover?

Sherlock shook his head and decided that this could wait. He needed to continue his search for motive or evidence.

After about fifteen minutes, John, who had been getting some much-needed air outside, looked up to see Sherlock storm out of from the house, his massive coat billowing behind him, as a very frustrated Lestrade followed suit.

"You do realize that this could take a ridiculous amount of time if we do it your way?" Sherlock asked angrily.

"We don't know for sure who it could have been! I'm trying, Sherlock, but you do not need to try to undermine and strip me of my authority. I can always take you off the case."

Sherlock whirled around and glared hard at the older man.

"You do that, Inspector, and you will get nowhere," he growled. "You need me and I would not stop investigating even if you took me off the case."

Lestrade narrowed his eyes and puffed up out his chest, "Then I could have you arrested for obtaining evidence and intruding on a classified investigation!"

"Then there's no telling how long I would be in prison, and you would be stripped of your rank. Besides, you would need me again." Sherlock challenged.

John decided that this nonsense was quite had gone on long enough.

"All right, gents, let's be calm about this. Lestrade, thanks for calling us in. We'll go home and wait for your call. Come on, Sherlock."

Sherlock glared, fists clenched, as he stalked petulantly behind John. Once they were in the clear and in a cab home, John turned his face to the window and watched nothing as they rode through London, back to Baker Street. Sherlock looked over to John and looked over his body, deducing.

John was unnecessarily tense and would not make eye contact with him. There was something, something was buried deep about the whole piano incident thing. Even though he was irritated with Lestrade, and frankly angry that John wouldn't just _tell him_ what was wrong, Sherlock softened himself and decided that his ire over his row with Lestrade could wait. Figuring out John's secret was much more important at this point in time.

With a smooth slide, Sherlock scooted closer and gently rested his hand on John's knee.

John jerked his knee away and crossed his arms, still not looking at Sherlock.

_Damn._

Once they arrived at got to Baker Street, John launched himself out of the cab and left Sherlock to pay the fare. Sherlock sighed after he entered the flat and pounded up the stairs after his disgruntled blogger.

"John, John wait!" Sherlock called after him.

John stopped and shook his head, "Not right now, Sherlock. Just...not right now. Okay?"

Sherlock knew that tone. That was John's "_I am begging you to please drop it_" tone. He conceded. If there was one thing the detective most decidedly did not need on his hands, it was an unnecessarily upset John.

Sherlock let John finish his climb up the stairs and make his way to the kitchen, undoubtedly to make tea. That was what John did when in quandary - make tea.

John looked stared down at the tea steeping in his mug and watched the color swirl at the bottom.

He really shouldn't have been so cross with Sherlock. It was, after all, natural curiosity that led him there. He heard John playing the bloody piano, for god's sake! Of course, he'd come in and listen.

John closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face. He needed to apologize. He didn't need to explain. Just apologize for acting like such a dick.

Once John finished preparing his tea, he walked into the sitting room, expecting to find Sherlock, but to find no one present.

"_Great, Watson. You've scared him off. He's probably experimenting on your favorite jumper now as payback._" John growled silently and sat himself in his armchair, moodily sipping his tea.

About twenty minutes later, John felt long fingers run over his shoulders and begin to knead the tension out of his muscles. John closed his eyes, sighing deeply, and leaned his head back against the seat, letting Sherlock massage him back to normal.

This was new, and it was nice. John had to think about it later when he had the chance. Maybe Sherlock would like one eventually as well.

John opened his eyes to see Sherlock hovering over him with a small, triumphant smile planted on his face.

"Sherlock..." John started to get up, but was quickly pushed back down as Sherlock walked around and sat on his knees – between John's legs – on the floor.

The lanky genius rested his arms across his blogger's lap and laid his head across them. John smiled and ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls. That was what Sherlock was doing, after all; giving John permission to muss his hair. After a couple of minutes of this, John gently tilted Sherlock's head up and pressed his forehead against his partner's.

"I'm sorry for my behavior earlier. It really was uncalled for. Forgive me?" John spoke quietly in hopes that Sherlock would reply just as intimately.

John was rewarded with a tender kiss and soft caress.

"What made you react that way?" Sherlock asked softly.

So much for hopes of avoiding questioning.

John shook his head and sat back, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'll explain…just not today. Maybe later."

Sherlock frowned and stood before departing to the kitchen to sulk...er...experiment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey, guys! Sorry this chapter was a little late. Life happens and gets in the way. Thank you, those who are following and reviewing. That makes me severely happy! Oh, and I should mention that I plan on posting on Saturdays. Whether that actually happens, I know not. But you have my word that this story will not be abandoned! Thank you all so much! xoxo ^-^**

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The next day, John woke up to a Sherlock-less bed. It wasn't entirely like it was an unusual happening – Sherlock typically rose before John (when he slept at all, that is) and occupied himself with experiments left over from the night before or typed up an entry for his blog before John got up to make breakfast. It wasn't unusual…but John felt wary about this morning.

Sherlock hadn't said a word about the whole piano issue since his massage last night. John knew better than to think that Sherlock would forget something like that. It was only a matter of time before Sherlock would scheme, connive, and, in general, weasel his way to answers again…or try and deduce John's past against his wishes.

When John sat up, he stretched his tired, sleep-stiffened muscles, moaning and sighing happily…before his eyes fell to Sherlock's pillow and the note which lay there. Lowering his arms slowly, John picked up the note which had his name written across it in Sherlock's elegant scrawl,and read it quickly to find out where exactly his love had gone off to.

_John. Lestrade phoned this morning. I didn't find it necessary to wake you, since it's just paper work. Text me when you wake up. I love you. – SH_

John was tempted to smile, but it didn't reach his mouth before his phone buzzed on his bedside table.

_Are you awake yet, John? – SH_

John sighed and lay back on his pillow. Someone was a bit impatient, wasn't he?

_Just got your note, actually. Impeccable timing. Do you have surveillance up? What am I doing now?_

John grinned cheekily as he waited for Sherlock's reply.

_I don't know. I don't spy on people like my brother,_John_. _However,_ if you just _received_ my note, I'd wager that you are still lounging in bed. – SH_

John stretched beneath the sheets. Not wrong, there.

_Did you need something, love?_

_Yes, actually. Come to Bart's. Nora Rank's body has been sterilized and we need data today. – SH_

_Alright. I'll be there soon. _Be nice and_ don't piss Molly off again. We'd like to continue going there, wouldn't we?_

_John, it was one cadaver. Besides, I already apologized. _You know_ she's not very good at holding grudges. – SH_

John shook his head as he hopped out of bed and gathered his clothes for a shower. It looked like it was going to be a long day with Sherlock- and he was excited, wanted to get ready as soon as possible so he could join his boyfriend at the morgue.

When he got into to the bathroom, though, he stopped and stared, his stomach dropping at the sight that met him.

There, next to his toothpaste, were two tickets to a musical talent competition being held at the Met. On the tickets was written- in bright red pen- _Holmes and Watson: Violin _with_ Piano accompaniment._

* * *

Sherlock was sitting on a stool in front of the microscope, deliberately ignoring Molly's blathering about her cat and the cute way it played with its new toy, when the lab door burst open, the walls rattling a bit from the impact.

Molly jumped, and her eyes widening when she saw the murderous look on John's face. Sherlock, however, didn't look up from his work.

John marched over, slammed the tickets onto the table, and agitatedly switched off the light to Sherlock's microscope.

"John! That was -"

"What the buggering fuck were you thinking!?" John bellowed, his face flushed a ruddy red, lips thinned down in fury.

Sherlock slowly straightened from his crouch over the microscope, closed his mouth, and simply stared at his boyfriend.

He'd never seen John this livid. Molly, who had removed herself from John's proximity before he started throwing things, looked on from the corner of her eyes, straining her ears to listen even as she shammed at giving the couple "privacy." She continued to stare as she busied herself with meaningless tasks in at the back of the lab.

"No, you weren't thinking clearly, were you? Of course not." John moved crowded into Sherlock's personal space. "I told you. I fucking _told_ you that I didn't let people know about my playing the piano for a reason. Could you wait for an explanation? _No_. You had to go and put sign us up for a fucking _competition_." John clenched his jaw and turned away from Sherlock, as if he couldn't bear to look at him a second longer. Less than a second later, though, he was spinning back round again, his anger overcoming all other emotions. "Now we're obligated to show up to this thing. I know, because I tried calling to cancel, but they wouldn't hear of it. All entry transactions are final and withdrawing from it means we won't get the one hundred quid back that you spent! One hundred quid, Sherlock! What the hell were you thinking? That's rent! That's groceries for a few weeks! That's…that's…" John choked on indignation. Sherlock eyed him apprehensively as John tried to compose himself. After a minute, he was finally able to speak. "Please explain to me why you did this."

"It was for—"

"If you say 'for the case' so help me God I will strangle you right now."

Sherlock kept his mouth closed (not wanting to experience strangulation at John's hands) and his face carefully indifferent, both of which only served to infuriate John further.

"John, I think it's best if you calm yourself down before we have this conversation."

John snorted and turned away, pacing in the small space like a caged lion. Sherlock looked on and began to regret his decision of signing them up for the competition…which bothered him more than his upsetting John did. He hated doubting himself and feeling as if he'd made a mistake.

John carded his fingers through his hair and took a few deep, calming breaths. Yelling wouldn't help the situation. It would only serve to exacerbate things further, something neither of them needed at the moment.

Sherlock stood and walked over to John tentatively, not wanting to touch the furious doctor, but also wanting to explain himself in a way that would convey his logic and his desire to learn more about his lover.

"Alright," John sighed after counting to ten... or forty, "out with it, Sherlock."

Sherlock pulled up a stool for John to sit on and sat back on his own stool. Once John was situated, Sherlock began his explanation.

"I was going through Nora's registrar and I took down some names that might be of interest last night. This morning, before you woke up, I was reading the paper and stumbled across the ad for the competition. I phoned them until someone picked up- really their system for receiving calls is very shoddy- and flirted with the receptionist until she gave me a list of the names after some persuasion. It's only logical for us to go undercover and find out who the murderer is _this way_ rather than bringing in each individual and questioning them. That would take days- time we don't have- and the murderer could flee before we get to the bottom of it. The competition is fairly close by -"

"Three days away." John interrupted crossly, not softened by Sherlock's speech.

"Precisely;" Sherlock continued, aware John hadn't forgiven him yet. "besides, there's a reward going out to for the winner and I _know_ you've been saving up for a new laptop and some other things. I thought we could use the extra money to indulge you a bit."

"We could have done that with the one hundred quid." John muttered, looking down at his hands. He hated this plan. He really hated it. Not only did it require him to play in front of a crowd – something he hadn't done in decades – but it was a deliberate ploy by Sherlock to get him to explain why he didn't play for people.

After a few moments, John decided that there was no way around it. It was just like Sherlock said- for the greater good. If this was the quickest way to find the murderer, and John refused to participate, and the murderer killed again, it'd be his fault. It'd be selfish of him not to participate.

Besides, even if he refused to participate and they somehow managed to catch the killer, they'd never get their money back. He and Sherlock needed the money if they won…and he couldn't avoid this forever. Sherlock would pout horrendously if John refused.

When John looked up at Sherlock again, his lover's eyes were calculating, cautious, as if any wrong move might set off a certain firecracker.

John sighed and stood up. "What piece do you have in mind, and how are we going to manage to find a bloody piano?"

Sherlock beamed and grabbed one of John's hands.

"I've already got it taken care of."

John nodded his head and squeezed Sherlock's hand before dropping it completely.

"I figured as much. Alright. I'll look at the body, but then I'm going home. It'd be in your best interest as well if we're going to do this shit thing." John grumbled. "We're going to need the practice."

Sherlock didn't protest, but stood and took their stools to their original places, then led John to the body.

After John snapped on a pair of latex gloves, grabbed a few necessary supplies, and bent over the body, he proceeded to professionally go about his work.

The cuts on Nora's chest were ragged, forced, and brutal. The killer may as well have been using a spoon to cut her open. The large X crossing her body was the main concern, though. It crossed over her chest and down to her hip to where the points met in the middle. That sort of laceration required a lot of strength behind it for such a ragged cut to reach that sort of distance.

John examined Nora's head and regarded the cuts beneath her cheekbones. They weren't very deep, but they had depth. Possibly a random, unintentional abrasion after the killer finished her off. John looked back down at to the wrists. The cuts there were so deep that the tendons of her wrists had been cut in half.

John stepped back and breathed out while he took the gloves off to throw them away.

Sherlock followed John's movements silently with his eyes and came to the same conclusion as the doctor.

Before John could open his mouth, Sherlock spoke up.

"The X was a message. The only injuries that really killed her were the cuts to her wrists. Those were enough to kill her within a few minutes. To make the X would have taken time and strength; enough strength to cut though the abdominal cavity lining to expose organs. If someone were being brutally murdered, the X would be too difficult to do with such a dull instrument. She would have struggled. They would have fought. It's not possible. My conclusion is that her killer attacked her, slit her wrists, and restrained her as she bled out. Wouldn't have been too difficult. The increased heart rate from such an attack would have meant her blood pumped out more quickly and couple that with increasing blood loss as time passed means restraining her was easy. Once she passed out from blood loss, dying shortly later, the passion became too overwhelming for the killer and they struck her cheeks. But that wasn't enough. No, no, no. There needed to be a message for the police; so they carved an X into her skin with the first thing they found."

John looked to Sherlock, "What would the weapon have been? The blade must have been lengthy in order to cut to the organs."

"Lestrade texted me about that about twenty minutes ago. Anderson found an old dagger under one of the armchairs in the room. Amazing they didn't find that during the initial investigation." Sherlock sneered sarcastically.

"You didn't find it either." John reminded him.

"I had more pressing matters on my mind. Besides, it's not my job to do all the work for them."

"You're just coming to that realization?"

This earned John a hard glare from Sherlock, which was quickly disregarded. After a few moments of silence, John moved again and threw away the gloves he'd forgotten in his hand.

"Well. Ready to go practice?"

Sherlock fidgeted. "I have a few more things to finish up here. Later?"

John sighed resignedly. "Fine."

Molly, who had been completely forgotten about, retreated a little further back into the lab to avoid being seen. She decided at that point that once John left, she needed to have a little chat with a certain handsome detective.

Sherlock walked to John as the doctor was making his way towards the door John to the door of the morgue.

"I'll be home in a couple of hours. We'll need to search for a duet piece then."

John huffed a breath and opened the door. Before he could completely exit the lab, Sherlock caught him by his hand.

"John..."

"Yes, Sherlock?" John answered, a bit impatiently. He still hadn't totally forgiven him for doing this.

"I love you." Sherlock spoke in a soft, almost crestfallen tone.

John sighed and wrapped his hand around Sherlock's hand.

"I love you too, you big git."

Sherlock gave a small smile and planted a kiss to the top of John's head. John gently squeezed Sherlock's hand and continued his trek out of the hospital. Sherlock watched him walk to the elevators and gave him a small wave as John got in and pressed the up arrow. He was slightly cheered when John gave him a smile and waved back before the doors slid closed.

Someone timidly cleared their throat behind him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and let the door fall closed before turning to Molly. Molly stepped forward and looked up at Sherlock's frame, his back turned to her.

"Are you two fighting?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Sherlock snapped and resumed his walk walked back to his microscope.

Molly steeled herself and followed him. She was not going to be pushed around anymore by this man. She had things to say, and damn it, she was going to say them.

"So you signed him up for a performance without his consent and haven't even listened to his explanation why he doesn't want to." She stated, her voice shaking just the tiniest bit at her own daring but she felt a flare of triumph that she'd spoken up.

"Wrong. He hasn't explained anything."

"That counts as not listening."

Sherlock looked to her as if she'd grown a third eye. What on earth was she talking about?

"You didn't give him time," Molly explained patiently, "he only needed you to wait a little longer. You could have given him some encouragement and space."

"Why are you telling me this? You think I don't understand my own boyfriend?"

"No! No, it's not that. It's just…you made a mistake, so…so I'm just…trying to help."

Molly knew she could have worded that better, but she didn't care. Sherlock obviously didn't share her opinion on that.

"_Helping me_ is telling me I made a mistake and there's nothing I can do to change that? You're exceedingly helpful, Molly." Sherlock scoffed as he stood to get his coat.

"Sherlock Holmes, you sit down and let me finish talking before you stalk off!" Molly commanded shrilly, throwing Sherlock completely off kilter. Where was everybody getting all of this gusto lately?

Sherlock gave her a skeptical, raised eyebrow as he ignored her directive and shrugged into his coat.

This threw Molly off-kilter, dampening her courage but she persevered. "What-what I'm trying to t-tell you is to m-maybe give John some space. I know you love him- it's plain as day. But-but what needs to happen…" She skirted around Sherlock as he made his way to the door of the morgue. "What needs to happen is that there needs to be some communication."

"You think I don't know that?" Sherlock asked tetchily, pausing with his hand on the door.

"I think you need to apologize." Molly said, bravely. "He hasn't had time to prepare, and this obviously pains him. Did-did you ever think that it could have been something traumatic? The reason he doesn't want to play? Maybe…maybe something that happened when he was younger?"

Sherlock stayed silent for a moment. Of course he had thought of that possibility. He had thought of a lot of possibilities, honestly. For someone as unpredictable as John, there were endless theories.

He had never intended to hurt John, only to learn more about him _while_ solving the case. It was apparent that John loved playing the piano- that much had been obvious when he watched him play yesterday- but something happened- something painful- to make him stop.

Sherlock breathed out and relaxed his tense shoulders. "I have considered the possibility. I was, however, pressed for time and thought that he would understand that."

Molly gave him a sympathetic smile and placed a firm hand on his shoulder; something he wasn't used to from Molly Hooper of all people.

"I know you're trying. And you're doing really well with him. I've never seen either one of you so happy as when you're in a real relationship. I know you love each other. It just takes time to get through these things. I believe in you...in both of you."

Molly smiled sweetly up at Sherlock and his heart did a funny little flip. Molly was one of his closest friends and one of his greatest confidants. If he ever thought anything good of Molly, her trustworthiness was top of the list. Sherlock gently patted her hand – an extremely rare sign of affection – and stood up.

"Thank you, Molly." he said, more congenially than earlier, "I'll take your word for that. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to find a piece of music."

Molly nodded her head and took her hand off of Sherlock's shoulder.

"Just- just one more question, Sherlock?"

Sherlock hummed in response as he buttoned his coat put on his coat and scarf.

"Where are you going to fit a piano? I- I mean…Is there even any room in your flat for one?"

Sherlock smirked. "Not in our flat, no. But 221C Baker Street should be holding a grand piano by now. Good day, Molly."

* * *

When John got home, there was a note on the door for him. He sighed as he jerked it from the door. If he had to find one more note...

_John, _

_Some men came and delivered something for you. I signed for it. Mycroft said I could. Do go downstairs and have a look; it's just lovely, dear! ;)_

– _Mrs. Hudson_

John hurried down the stairs to 221C, opened the door- already knowing what he'd find- and found himself facing an exquisite Yamaha grand piano sitting on a tarp in the middle of the room. Beside it sat was a box that containing all sorts of music books and folders.

John almost couldn't breathe.

It was a truly beautiful piano. Probably the finest he'd ever seen. It was all black and glossy with shining keys that smiled up at him invitingly, tempting him to play, practically begging him to do so.

Once John found his breath, he edged over to the stool and ran his fingers over the keys, stroking them lovingly.

He bit his lip, hesitated, then sat down on the padded bench. He took his time placing and re-placing his hands on the elegant, smooth keys before taking a deep breath…and playing a few chords.

The music reverberated around the room, the pitch perfect and clear, stealing the very breath from John's lung with how utterly bewitching it sounded.

He honestly couldn't help himself. The piano called to him like mysteries called to Sherlock. There was no denying the fact that he had a talent; a great one at that. Nothing could take that away; nothing and nobody other than himself. John frowned at his fingers which still hovered on the keys.

No, this was right. It was okay to play the instrument he loved.

"I see you found it."

John jumped and whirled to find Sherlock was standing in the doorway, his hands clasped behind his back. John looked at him and his heart sank. They were really going to have to do this. He was really going to have to play in front of people again.

Sherlock gave John a small smile and walked to him. John smiled back lightly and rested his head against Sherlock's stomach once they were close together. If John had to choose anyone to perform with him, he'd only want Sherlock.

They were in this together.

Sherlock placed his hands on John's head and lightly petted his hair. He personally felt that this was apology enough, but knew better. He knew John would prefer a verbal apology to a cuddle. Even so, the detective was quite content to run his fingers through his soldier's hair.

John hummed his appreciation and nuzzled against Sherlock's belly. He was warm and comfortable. After a moment, Sherlock tilted John's head up to look at him as he knelt down beside his little love.

"I realize that what I did was…not good. I just wanted to get this case done while learning all I can about you. You surprise me, John. I…I didn't take your feelings into consideration as much as I should have done, and for that…I apologize. You do know I love you?"

John leaned forward and kissed the side of Sherlock's neck.

"Of course I know," he spoke gently back, "and I love you too."

"I know. I will let you tell me your reasoning in your own time." Sherlock solemnly vowed.

John drew back and smiled at Sherlock. After a tender kiss, Sherlock stood and walked over to a stand that held his violin.

"Shall we get on with the show, then?" He asked, smiling.

John smiled and nodded, "Do you know any Yiruma?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey, guys. I hope everyone's having a nice weekend. Warning: this chapter is angsty. Like, really angsty. [Trigger warning for depression, suicide, and drug references.] Please leave a review. Love you guys! (^3^) **

* * *

Mrs. Hudson was lying in her bed, floating in a wondrous sleep, when her telephone rang, in the sitting room, rudely jarring her awake. Sighing – and quite upset with being so rudely jerked out of her dreams – she padded into the sitting room and answered the phone.

"Hello? Oh, Mr. Hammond! It's half two in the morning – is everything alright? ...Why, yes, I know that they're playing; it's quite lovely, I – …. Pardon? ...Yes, I am aware of the time. It's for some case Sherlock is on. They're going to – …. Well, there's no need to be so rude. Mr. Hammond. Let me remind you that I live under the same roof as these men, and not once have I ever been called at all hours of the night about fighting or music or anything of the like before. Maybe later on in the day, but never this – …. _Excuse me!?_ Where _exactly_ are your manners, young man? ... Well, the next time you decide to rouse an old lady from her sleep you'd better think twice about where you put them!"

And with that, Emma Hudson banged the phone on the receiver and stalked back to her bed. She knew perfectly well that hanging up on Mr. Hammond wasn't polite at all, but she didn't honestly care at that moment. She was tired and did _not_ feel like dealing with complaints so early in the morning. The nerve of some people!

She settled herself among the now-cold sheets, tossing and turning, and fluffing her pillow up but, after several minutes, she decided that sleep was a lost cause. Her hip hurt too much to sleep anyway.

She propped herself up against her large, plush pillows, turned on her bedside light, took out a bottle of Paracetamol from a drawer, and took two with the glass of water she had set on her bedside table. Since she knew she wouldn't be sleeping for a while, decided to finish reading the book that she'd started the previous week.

While she read, Mrs. Hudson could hear the sounds of Sherlock and John rehearsing from the apartment below her, with some brief exchanges of disagreement. For the most part, though, the sounds of tinkling piano music, accompanied by the melodious strains of Sherlock's violin, were very soothing. How Mr. Hammond called that beautiful music _noise_ was beyond her reckoning.

Mrs. Hudson smiled to herself and nestled deeper into her pillows. She thought about her boys and how lucky she was to have two wonderful men to care for and for them to protect her. She loved them as her own sons and fully supported them in the decisions they made – even the idiotic ones, she mused, thinking of a few choice things Sherlock had done over the years.

Mrs. Hudson yawned a bit and listened to the soft melody of Sherlock's violin. It really _was_ quite lovely.

Three pages into her book and Mrs. Hudson was sound asleep, the paperback folded across her chest and piano and violin compositions floating around her.

* * *

John stared at the sheet music propped against his piano with heavy eyelids, his brain fuzzy, and his responses were sluggish.

They'd been at this for _hours_.

The only breaks he got were those to the loo and back. Earlier, John had almost had to pick Sherlock up, sling him over his shoulders, and _pry_ him from the room so they could get dinner into both of their bellies. Sherlock's single-minded determination concerning their practice was, quite frankly, scary and manic. John was exhausted.

Now, after hours of trying out different scores, his mad genius of a boyfriend was pacing around the room, tossing sheet after sheet of inadequate music over his shoulder, muttering to himself. John knew better than to offer his own input, having been so rudely snapped at for suggesting they stick to the third piece of music they'd played.

"No, no, of course not." Sherlock muttered, tossing another sheet to the floor. "Useless." Another toss. "Flourishes, flourishes- disgusting…No…"

John groggily thought maybe he could rest his eyes…for just a moment…

Sherlock was startled out of his elimination process by the discordant bang of piano keys behind him.

He turned to find John had fallen asleep, passed flat out with his face on the piano keys. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stalked over to him – they needed to finish this up _tonight_ – but was stilled as he looked down at his exhausted lover.

John looked completely and utterly knackered. Sherlock sighed and put his stack of papers down before walking over to John and tenderly sliding his arm around the doctor's waist. John woke up as he was hauled up from his piano bench by Sherlock and he made a vague noise to convey his irritation at being moved.

"I know, love. We're going to bed now." Sherlock spoke quietly to John. There was nothing that Sherlock would do to upset John at this point; a tired, disoriented, and irritated John was truly a fearsome sight, and not one that Sherlock particularly cared for.

As they made their way up the steps to their flat, John tripped and banged his shin on one of the steps.

"Ow! Ah, fuck…" he swore sleepily,doing an odd, hopping jig as he bent to massage the throbbing bone. He almost overbalanced but caught himself at the last second by grabbing at the bannister, saving himself from falling backward and breaking his neck. John swore again.

Sherlock sighed and moved in front of John. He crouched a bit with his back turned to John and his arms spread out at his sides.

"Sh'lock? What're you doing?" John mumbled, confused.

"You're almost dead asleep on your feet, John. It'll be easier if I carry you to bed. Get on my back." Sherlock explained softly, but couldn't help sounding just a bit irritated.

John, not partial on being picked up, but really not partial on taking another step further, complied and draped himself across Sherlock's back. Sherlock hefted John up and situated them for a moment before turning his head to see John's closed eyes and slightly parted lips. A small smile graced Sherlock's features as he restarted their climb and, after a bit of puffing and heaving (John was more solid that he looked- Sherlock made a note to hide the chocolate biscuits for the next few weeks), finally got to their room.

It took a while, but Sherlock eventually got John, who had flopped onto their bed and gone deadweight, undressed and tucked under the covers. After deciding that he didn't feel like continuing the music selection without John's input (however ill-informed and distasteful it was), Sherlock took off his own clothes off and slid under the covers, turning the lights out.

He turned towards John and softly pulled him closer, allowing the sleeping doctor to be snuggle into his arms.

It was almost an hour later, just as Sherlock himself was about to drift off, that John started talking in his sleep.

Sherlock's ears perked up from his half-asleep state and he listened closely.

"No, that's not the right note. You need to play the blue one after the yellow one." John mumbled.

He was dreaming about music. Sherlock smiled. He was _this close_ to discovering John's secret. Sherlock waited with baited breath and focused on his lover.

"I don't want to...the jammy dodgers will be watching. Jacob, no."

Jacob? Who was Jacob? Jammy dodgers? Sherlock's mind whirred with possibilities, a sinking feeling forming in the pit of his stomach that John was having a simple, regular, boring dream after all.

"Could you not play so roughly? It sounds like you're banging on drums, not playing Minuet."

Sherlock smirked. John had mentioned that he hated it when people banged on keys when the music didn't call for it.

"Oh my god, Jacob. That's amazing. Show me how!" John cheered in a light, sleepy tone. "Jacob, no. I don't like my hands in that position. I'll do it my way."

Apparently, John had fought this Jacob about the piano on several had probably been histeacher. Sherlock was snapped out of his amused state when he noticed John's breathing had picked up and his heart was thudding against Sherlock's chest. It was easy enough to read the well-known signs in the man he was closest to: a nightmare was coming on.

Sherlock carefully untangled himself from John in case things got ugly.

"Harry, you're lying. That's not...he wouldn't." John's face bunched up in confusion and hurt, "No...'s not true."

John's hand reached up and gripped the pillow he was laying on. Sherlock turned his lamp on and watched him. John wasn't roused by the sudden wash of light – this was not good.

"Jacob...Jacob no! Don't!" John curled in on himself and was heaving with deep, labored breaths. "JACOB!"

Sherlock decided enough was enough. Discovery of information he couldn't normally get from John was important… but not as much as John's mental well-being.

John let out a terrified scream and his entire body clenched in on itself.

"John!" Sherlock called out, "John, wake up!"

John turned on his back, and was his eyes still closed, breathing so heavily he was almost choking. Sherlock, knowing that he would most likely be attacked (it had happened in the past before he learned the correct way to handle such situations), maneuvered himself to a prime position for escaping a punch and commenced with calling out to John as loudly as he could.

"John, you're having a nightmare. Wake up! Come on, love, you're alright. Wake up, John!"

After a few moments of Sherlock's desperate pleas for John to bloody _wake up_, John's eyes flew open as he gasped for breath before slamming his hand over his mouth. Before Sherlock could react, John had pushed off of the bed and was sprinting for the loo. The door slammed behind him and Sherlock sat still in his place on the bed, gripping the sweat soaked sheets as he listened to John's body revolt against him.

The look that had been on John's face frightened Sherlock. He'd only seen that look once before, when they were in Baskerville, and had hoped to never see it again. The look was pure terror, a panic so profound and severe it was almost uncomfortable to witness.

Sherlock waited for the flush of the toilet before slowly getting out of bed and stripping the sheets to replace them. He didn't go directly to John, instead giving him some space, the memory of the last time John was ill fresh in his mind. No one wanted to be around John when he was ill, not even John himself.

Once he'd fixed the bedclothes, Sherlock walked quietly to the loo and slowly opened the door. The sight before him broke his rumored non-existent heart.

John was curled up against the bathtub, shaking and panting from the aftershocks of his ordeal. His face, almost as white as the tiles he leaned against, was covered in a cold sweat. He guiltily glanced at Sherlock who hovered in the doorway, unsure of his welcome. John managed a very shaky smile and, with great effort, succeeded in slowing his breathing.

Sherlock gave John a sympathetic look and knelt down beside him on the icy tiles. John hadn't had dreams that violent since he'd stopped dreaming of Afghanistan, when he and Sherlock started sleeping in the same bed. Sherlock had flattered himself that he was the cause of the disappearance of John's nightmares. It seemed he had been wrong.

Sherlock's heart broke all over again because he knew that this entire plan of his was the cause for John's horrific nightmare. If he hadn't pushed his love into the music competition and forced him to play for hours on end, John would be sound asleep in bed, dreaming of nothing, rather than on the floor shaking from his body's purge.

The doctor shakily sat up and leaned into Sherlock. His head was spinning and he wanted to go back to bed, to warm sheets and a hopefully dreamless sleep. Without a word, Sherlock carefully helped John up so he could sit on the toilet lid.

After John was situated, slumped forward and still shaking, the detective poured up a cup of water for John to wash his mouth out. John accepted the cup with a tremulous hand and swished the water slowly. Sherlock silently took the cup after John was finished and led them back to the bedroom.

As John crawled into the bed and pulled the fresh sheets up to his chest, Sherlock walked over to the windows and stared down at the street below, keeping his back to John.

Sherlock was mentally kicking himself. All while he should have been focusing on the bloody case, he had been pushing John too hard. Something needed to give. He couldn't give up the case, and he couldn't get out of the competition even if he wanted to – John would throttle him for spending the money. Not that Sherlock was intimidated by John (maybe a little; only on the really bad days). But they didn't need any more rifts in their relationship as it was.

As Sherlock was delving deeper into his mind palace in search of a solution, John laid on his side and breathed slowly, keeping his eyes open to fight the sleep that was threatening to take him back to his nightmares. He could tell from the pounding of his heart and the nervous energy twitching through his body that if he dropped off to sleep now, he was in for another nightmare. He couldn't go back to that. He didn't want to think about _that._

After a few moments, John found his voice and softly called out to Sherlock. "Love..?" he rasped, "What're you doing?"

"Thinking. Go back to sleep, John."

"No, I can't. Come here, please."

Sherlock's heart broke afresh at the plea and as he turned to see John's haunted eyes gazing up at him expectantly. The detective walked slowly back to John and carefully curled up beside him. John softly took Sherlock's hand in his own and ran his thumb up and down, back and forth.

"Talk to me. I don't want to sleep."

Sherlock sighed and laid his head back.

"What do you want me to talk about?" he asked, not really caring to talk at the moment but he would do it for John. He would do anything for John…except not push him apparently, he thought sardonically.

"What were you thinking about so loudly over there?"

After a pause, Sherlock turned on his side and faced John.

"John, I realize that you've had a terrible ordeal with this whole piano situation," he spoke softly, in hopes that he wouldn't distress John further by bringing the topic up, "but I need to know so that I can help you. After what happened tonight, I don't want to do anything that may upset you or induce another nightmare like that again. Please, love. Let me know what's been locked away in that weary mind of yours for so long."

John sighed and didn't speak for several moments. Sherlock thought he'd upset John again and was about to move away when John squeezed Sherlock's hand and brought it to the bridge of his nose. Sherlock stayed still – John was absorbing comfort that he obviously needed before explaining the details of his experience.

"Harry and I weren't the only children in my family. Growing up, we had a cousin named Jacob; but he was close enough to be our brother. Hell, I claimed him as my brother more than once. He was only four months older than me, but we were practically twins."

John paused and let out a breath of laughter as he remembered times that he'd become frustrated with Jacob after the same old lame excuse of "oldest first" for every family event.

"Harry and I loved him, Sherlock. He was my closest friend and he was bloody brilliant. He was the smartest of the three of us and could easily out-wit us in any problem. Jacob was also talented. Musically, you know. He could play almost anything you could imagine a kid could play. And he was good at it. Really good."

"One day, I stumbled across him playing on the piano in my uncle's sitting room. The song he played was so beautiful; I couldn't tear my eyes away, I was frozen watching him. I realized…that was what I wanted to do. I wanted to play like that…like he did. After I bugged him about it for a few weeks, Jacob finally agreed decided to teach me. You can imagine how surprised we were when we learned then that I was fucking fantastic at the piano- it was just like…like a gift I had…and he knew it. I'll never forget the look on his face."

John cut off for a moment, choking with raw emotion. Jacob's proud smile flashed back at him and he internally reached out to him. After steeling himself against his subsequent emotions, John let out a breath and pulled Sherlock's closed hand to his fast beating heart.

"We were sixteen at the time, and Harry was eighteen. We all spent most of our afternoons at Jacob's house, playing music and talking about everything. I mean…everything. We were so close, Sherlock. Like I said, he was like my brother…the twin I never had and…" John huffed out a breath, trying to control himself. "Harry and Jacob brought their girlfriends over all the time and I stayed steadily single through the whole ordeal. I was this short, kind of nerdy kid who could play the piano…but they never made me feel like a third wheel or anything. It was us…together."

"One afternoon, Jacob starting acting different. We'd noticed a change in his behavior before but…we never said anything. We figured it was just a bad week, maybe he'd had a fight with his parents or girlfriend or something. We just thought it'd pass. Later…later, he stopped bringing girls over. He only played the piano when we asked him to, avoided it if he could at all and made up all sorts of excuses why he couldn't play…which was out of the ordinary. We usually fought each other for a turn to play…then all of a sudden he didn't want to? Then he started getting aggressive for no reason…just really angry all the time… but after he noticed this, he would become so depressed. Then he just stayed that way. We didn't know what to do until we found out that..."

John paused. He remembered all of the confusion that he felt over the discovery. Harry had been devastated and John remembered yelling and doing everything he could to help Jacob.

"He'd got into drugs to distract himself from depression."

Sherlock's stomach dropped.

"We tried everything to bring him out of it, but there was no stopping his addiction." John's voice sped up, as if he wanted to get the information out as quickly as possible, as if that would make it less painful. "He was addicted to heroin and cocaine, and smoked anything he could find. His decline was fast and deadly. After about five months of that, we found out that he had clinical depression, but we couldn't afford any medication or therapy for him. Jacob was really low; too low for even me to pull him out. And I tried. Christ, Sherlock…I tried. He quit talking to me. Later, Harry and I…we...he...what he did was..."

Sherlock flattened his hand over John's heart in a futile effort to somehow slow his rapid pulse. He didn't say anything, knowing that if he did, John would close himself off again. Sherlock would let John finish this out on his own terms.

John breathed with Sherlock's hand pressed against his heart; a comfortable pressure that reminded him that he lived in the present and the past was over. It didn't have the power to hurt him anymore. After a moment, John spoke again.

"He offed himself a few days later...while he was on the phone with me and Harry. We tried to stop him." John's voice broke and he had to hold his breath to stop the onslaught of tears.

Sherlock said nothing, nor did he offer any type of comfort – he didn't know how. Had he known that this was behind all of John's ranting and ravings, he would have never touched the subject of the piano playing.

John wasn't finished, though.

"I had to play at his funeral. There were so many people there. He never understood how many people really loved him... I managed to get about halfway through the song before I dropped my hands and just fucking bawled right there."

"Your grief overtook you and you couldn't play anymore." Sherlock said quietly.

"Yeah..." John shakily sighed, "I couldn't finish it and had to be led off the platform. After Harry gave her eulogy, I had to play one more time. It was his favorite song; Candle In the Wind. We used to laugh at him for playing it so passionately. He said he'd be as great as Elton John one day."

A tear dropped down the side of John's face and ran into his hair. Sherlock hesitantly wiped it away and rested his hand in John's hair, stroking through the greying strands. John choked back a sob and put his arm over his face with his fist clenched. He had to finish the story so he could move on. He was so tired of this.

"It was ironic that I played that song, you know." he said to try and lighten the mood.

"It was written in honor of Marylyn Monroe eleven years after her death." Sherlock interjected. John seemed slightly shocked that Sherlock knew that bit of trivia.

"Yeah…yeah it was. In any case, when it was finished, and the funeral was over, Harry and I were wrecks. Physically and just…emotionally. I promised myself that I wouldn't play the bloody piano again after that. I couldn't handle it."

John took his arm off of his face and turned on his side to face Sherlock wearily.

"John..." Sherlock whispered. He wasn't entirely sure what to say to make his little love feel better. Emotions weren't his area, and he had no idea how to comfort someone who'd been through something so traumatic.

John shook his head and curled into Sherlock's body.

"Don't worry about saying anything, Sherlock. It's okay."

Sherlock sat up and took John's tear streaked face into his hands.

"No," he said firmly, "no it's not okay. I pressed you into this. John, I'm sorry."

John turned his face and pressed his lips into Sherlock's palm. Sherlock wasn't entirely forgiven for his actions, but John was glad for the comfort provided. After a few calming breaths, John snuggled back into Sherlock and looked out the window. He was tired and his body ached. John felt Sherlock's lips press against his head and they both came to the silent conclusion that the discussion was over for the night and they were both due for more sleep – however unwanted it was.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello, all! Guys, I am ****_so_**** sorry for that little impromptu hiatus. I really didn't plan to be gone this long! Life happens, and sometimes real life has to be taken care of before fanfiction. I really did mean to get this chapter up sooner, but it seemed that everything has been thrown on top of me from school, work, family, and all sorts of other things going on. Again, I'm really sorry. I can't promise that chapter 5 will be up before Dec 18th, but I can promise that chapter 5 will be here. I won't ask for more than some understanding and support as I finish out this semester and find time for this story. Thank you to those that are following and reviewing. You guys make me so happy! Oh, and if -for some reason- you still want to read something of mine that is posted, I have my completed one-shot "Three Years, Sherlock" for your angsty pleasure, and my completed "It Takes a Bomb". If anyone has read these before, you'll know that I wrote ITAB with my best friend, 221bSuperPotterWhoLocked.**

**I hope everyone had a happy Thanksgiving (to my American followers) and I hope everyone starts off the Christmas season on a happy note. Thank you again, and I will have another chapter before Season 3 airs. I love you all! ^-^ xoxo**

* * *

The next day began abruptly when Sherlock's mobile woke the men up from their uneasy slumber, chirping loudly in the hushed, sleepy silence of their bedroom.

John groaned and rolled over, pulling the covers up over his head and hoping Sherlock hadn't heard so that he could go back to sleep. It'd only been a few hours since they'd drifted into a restless sleep, and he was knackered.

It was wishful thinking.

He listened with a sinking feeling- knowing he wouldn't be getting any more sleep- as Sherlock rolled opposite him and fumbled with his mobile. There was a beat of silence, then-

"John." Sherlock nudged him, his voice roughened with sleep. "It's Lestrade. There's been another murder."

John groaned again and tightened his grip on the covers as Sherlock tugged at them.

"John." Annoyance crept into Sherlock's voice. "John. Did you hear me? There's been another murder!"

"Mmmrgh." John mumbled incoherently, squinting his eyes closed determinedly and refusing to relinquish his grip on the covers.

Sherlock, though, was not to be dissuaded. He gave a sudden and almighty _yank_, jerking the fabric from John's hands and leaving him cowering in the cold air.

"Sherlock!" John protested, throwing his pillow over his head in an attempt to conceal his eyes from the sunshine streaming in at the window. Sherlock snatched that away as well.

"We don't have time for this, John." Sherlock huffed. "There's been another murder. Now get up."

John continued grumbling as he was reluctantly pulled from the bed by an overly eager Sherlock and made to get dressed "quickly, quickly, John!" and was almost all-together discouraged from personal hygiene.

That was where he drew the line.

"_No_, Sherlock." He said, pulling away as Sherlock tried to rush him past the loo. "I am getting a shower before we leave. Now, if you don't get your sorry arse in here with me, then we'll both offend everyone we come across." He snapped, letting his annoyance with the entire situation creep into his voice.

Sherlock looked ready to argue.

"Your breath stinks and your hair looks like rats are living in it." John informed him brutally. "Not to mention the way your armpits-"

"All right!" Sherlock snapped back, grimacing. "Fine. Ten minutes."

"Make it fifteen." John said, eyeing Sherlock's face. "You're looking scruffy."

After almost twenty "needless" minutes of undressing, showering, shaving, teeth brushing and then re-dressing, Sherlock and John hailed a cab and were finally- finally!- on the move for the case. Lestrade had been texting Sherlock the details as they got ready as much as possible and the consulting detective was practically vibrating in his seat with anticipation.

When they finally got to the crime scene, Sherlock bolted out of the cab like a bullet from a gun, leaving John to, sighing, pay the fare.

Following after the retreating back of his boyfriend, John glanced up at the beautiful exterior of the house and experienced an odd sense of de'ja'vu. This house was similar to the last one in which they'd investigated a murder a few days ago: it was in a good, upper-class neighborhood where murders didn't usually take place, large-very large, and elaborately done up on the outside. It had an intricate garden path leading to the front door, framed on both sides by flowers, so many different kinds John didn't know the name of and so many different colors he felt his eyes were being assaulted. The house looked as though it were fitted up for the royal family. Definitely one of the best houses John had ever been in.

It seemed this was a case for that.

Once John finished gawking, he gathered his scattered thoughts, reached for his professionalism, squared his shoulders, and walked briskly inside.

He paused in the entryway - which was just as extravagant as the last house they'd been in (though this one had more artwork on the walls John actually recognized) -unsure where to go. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, nor were there any cops to direct him to the crime scene.

John took his time to look around as he wandered down the hallway toward the distant sound of voices, eyes widening despite himself as he took in the sumptuous fixtures around him. There were doors on either side of the hallway leading to different rooms and he took the opportunity to glance in at each one in case he saw something important.

Bathroom. Nothing important there.

Coat closet. Seemed this was a bust.

Ah, sitting room.

There was a grand piano proudly on display in the sitting room he glanced in, the gleaming top littered with sheet music. A large basket sat beside the piano, containing books and books of music.

It seemed there was another pattern to these murders.

The room wasn't quite as exquisite as John had expected from the way the house was fitted up on the outside. It was slightly less flashy than Nora's house and was only marginally smaller. Fortunately, it was easy to navigate, as there were fewer pieces of furniture.

A little further down the hall, toward what appeared to be a kitchen, Sherlock called for John.

"John, come here!" the detective yelled.

John quit his impromptu tour and hurried to his love. He was met with a very familiar sight once he got there.

It was a young woman – possibly mid-twenties – with long, brown hair splayed around her. She'd been left face down in a pool of blood and her hair stuck to the floor in a gruesome pattern, held there by the patina of by her clothing – a set of silken pajamas – she had not been expecting visitors; not like their deceased piano instructor, who'd been fully clothed.

At Sherlock's behest, John snapped on a pair of gloves and set to work at turning the slender body over.

"Oh, Christ!" Lestrade breathed out in disbelief once she'd been turned.

This woman had been treated nearly the same as Nora, but the killer had attacked differently this time. This woman had her throat sliced open – her blood having been drained from there – with two slashes under her cheekbones, and a large IX carved into her torso. This abrasion was slightly less ragged, but still just as grisly, as her organs gleamed under the surface**. **The smell of intestines rose in a choking cloud from the body and each man fought to keep from wrinkling his nose or gagging unprofessionally at the smell.

John kept a solemn look on his face as he gazed down at the victim, but Sherlock was bursting with excitement. It'd been a while since they had a serial killer on their hands.

"What's her name?"

"Catherine Lipton." Lestrade answered promptly, flipping through his notes.

"Like the tea?" John asked half amused, despite himself. He knew that being amused at a crime scene was more than a bit not good. He'd lectured Sherlock about it on more than one occasion.

"Pretty much, yeah." Lestrade responded, "She was a cousin of the owner's son, if you can believe that."

"Also a former competitor of ours, John. Her name was on the list."

"Of suspects or competition?" John asked.

Sherlock hummed in annoyance and moved around the body. John rolled his eyes and went with 'competition', rather than trying to ask any more apparently 'stupid' questions.

Sherlock's eyes flicked over the corpse as he examined every abrasion and oddity of her death. The same deductions were made as last time, apart from the fact that there was no glaring picture of an engagement in her home.

She did however appear to be missing something important to her.

"She's missing her engagement ring." Sherlock declared, picking up the corpse's hand with his own plastic gloved ones. "The skin is worn smooth. She's been wearing it for a while and yet, not married. Fiancé?"

"Yeah. William 's the one who found her apparently. He's the one who made the call to 999."

"Where is he?" John asked Lestrade.

"In the ambulance outside. He's in shock."

Sherlock nodded, straightening from his crouch over the body and giving John a look.

"Let's go find a hideous orange blanket, shall we? Come along, John."

Once the men were in the fresh air again and away from the stench of blood and excretory material, which always went along with violent death, John easily spotted the man in question.

William Barton sat on the back steps of one of the ambulances assembled on the long, sweeping driveway. Hewas an athletic looking young man, tall and toned with solid muscles. His hair was buzzed short and he looked about the right age for a professional rugby player.

As Sherlock and John walked over, William was in the process of slowly and methodically breathing into a paper bag slowly, obviously coming down from a panic attack.

"Mr. Barton?" Sherlock asked as they drew level with him.

William gave a nod and the lowered the bag from his mouth.

"That's me. Look, I've already talked to the police, can I please just...?"

"We're not the police," Sherlock interrupted, not softened by the man's shaking and weak voice, "but we do need you to answer some questions."

John took in William's bemused expression and shook his head at Sherlock's less-than-stellar people skills.

"This is Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective." John intervened, "I'm Doctor John Watson, his assistant. We just need you to answer a few questions and we'll be out of your way."

"Sherlock Holmes? Like, from the internet?"

"The very one." Sherlock replied dryly, rolling his eyes, shooting John a put-out look. He hated being reminded that his celebrity was tied to John's blog.

William nodded and breathed out in defeat. He looked as though he would shatter at just the slightest breeze. John felt sympathy for him.

"Ask away, Mr. Holmes." William muttered, running a hand through his hair and visibly trying to steady himself.

Sherlock, remembering the ordeal of last night, used a slightly gentler tone than usual.

"I need you to tell me _exactly_ what happened this morning. Don't leave anything out, even if you think it's not important."

William shifted and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, not that it covered much, and cleared his tear clogged throat.

"I'd been out with some of my mates last night – drinkin', celebratin' our latest win at rugby, and I stayed at my brother's house. I wasn't drunk or nothin'- not bad at least- but he was. I wanted to keep an eye on him. He's a right bloody idiot when he's plastered and you never know what he might get up to left on his own."

Sherlock tried his best not to roll his eyes. He'd probably get in trouble with John for that.

"I called and asked Cathy if it'd be alright with her first, and she told me that she was fine, had the doors bolted, and the security system on. She said she could take care of herself one night. It was just for one night. Said she'd be fine. So I trusted her. I called her last night before we passed out- just to check on her- and she said she was safe. Got shirty with me for calling. Said she could take care of herself." William sniffed, his face screwing up, remembering the last time he'd heard his fiancé's voice. "I didn't know it'd be the last time I… I wish I'd told her I loved her, you know? But I was tired and just wantin' to go to bed and get off the phone as fast as I could. And I didn't." He furiously rubbed at his eyes and John shifted awkwardly beside Sherlock.

"Anyway. When I woke up this mornin', I decided I'd surprise her and make breakfast before she got up. Make up for me staying out all night. When I got home though…the door was standin' wide open. I knew something had happened…she never would've left the door open like that…but the alarm hadn't gone off. I ran in and..."

"You found her corpse." Sherlock finished.

William bowed his head and covered his face, struggling to keep his composure in front of strangers. John's heart ached for the man's misfortune and he stood a little closer.

"William, do you have cameras set up with your security system? We may be able to ID the killer that way."

After a moment of contemplation, during which he scrubbed at his eyes to keep the tears at bay, William stood and motioned for the men to follow him. They were slightly surprised at William's sudden change in stature, but were relieved to finally have a lead.

**As** they entered the house, William pointed out the security cameras mounted at each of the windows and situated over the front door. John hadn't noticed them when he first entered the house but Sherlock didn't even look as William gestured, already having seen them. The cameras blinked red, showing they were working; that is, all but one.

John pursed his lips and continued walking.

William led them down the stairs to the basement where the security office was set up. When they entered the office, William showed them to the high tech system. Sherlock recognized it as one of the top systems created. It was only a few advancements short of being equal to Mycroft's system.

"There. I'm sure the police have probably gone over it by now." William sighed.

"Did you mention it to them?" Sherlock asked impatiently, seating himself at the desk and clicking on the televisions. The screens flickered to life, showing different feeds from all over the house.

"Well, er, no?"

"You have to point out everything to this lot." Sherlock muttered darkly, "Who developed the password?"

"Well, we came up with it together." William stammered, thrown off a bit by Sherlock's petulant mood.

Sherlock contemplated the desk then lifted up the coffee mug which held an array of pens and pencils, revealing a crumpled slip of paper with the password printed neatly on it.

"What…how'd you…?" William trailed off as Sherlock, with the arch of one elegant eyebrow, ignored him and keyed in the password, easily maneuvering his way through the security system.

He rewound the footage from the night before, then restarted it, playing it at two times the normal speed. All three men fell silent as they watched the play of film.

Nothing out of the ordinary showed on the footage until the clock on the cameras flipped to 3:45 in the morning.

The video showed Catherine walking down the hall, looking rather disgruntled and disoriented, in her pajamas, hair mussed, obviously having been woken rather abruptly. She padded to the front door, visibly muttering something with her face screwed in irritation. At that point, the camera overlooking the door cut out and nothing could be seen for the next few moments until Catherine was seen running into the kitchen, a tall, dark figure trailing behind her. She turned to face her assailant, but was caught in his arms as he pulled her against his body, slitting her throat in one quick, well-executed move.

Will made a high-pitched noise of distress and John reached over to turn the video off- no man needed to see his fiancé murdered so brutally and then cut up- but the man stopped him. John looked back to give some sort of comfort to the grieving ex-fiancé, but was floored by his expression.

William looked positively shattered, unhinged, murderous, and vindictive all in one expression on his countenance. John drew his hand away as the grisly scene played before the three men; a woman drained of her life and then carved into a warning.

Sherlock's face matched John's in that they were both equally horrified, but masked over with solemn, deadpan expressions. William stood and quickly walked out of the room, not waiting for Sherlock or John to ask any questions.

"William?" John called after him as he and Sherlock followed behind, not close enough to intrude, but far enough to keep a safe distance, lest he lash out. People who had had a shock were often not reasonable.

"I only know of one person who could have...would have done this." William growled, stopping in the center of the hallway and clenching his oversized fists.

Sherlock and John exchanged a glance.

"Who would have done this, William?" Sherlock asked carefully, almost comfortingly,but John could hear the sound of excitement beneath the veneer.

The way Sherlock was handling the situation reminded John of their case with Henry Knight -how Sherlock was mostly considerate for the man traumatized by H.O.U.N.D. and its effects while still being transported by the convoluted madness of the case.

"There's this guy. He's had his eye on her for a while. Her and most of her friends. He even threatened me once."

"Did you report the threat?" Sherlock asked, eyeing the man skeptically.

"Nah, he's a coward. I could knock him out in just one swing."

"If he's such a coward, then why would he kill someone he fancied?" John asked. He didn't intend for the question to sound like a challenge, but it may have come out that way, because William looked peevishly down at him.

"That's your job to figure that one out, yeah?"

"What's his name?" Sherlock broke in, sounding equally peeved. Or was that protection for John in his voice?

William blinked and gathered his thoughts. It took him merely a moment and a series of faces as if he'd come up with something, but he finally found the name he was looking for.

"Dimitri Schmit." William snapped his fingers in recollection.

John turned and looked at Sherlock for a moment.

"Schmit? Like the guy in the papers? The one that goes to every musical competition in England?"

"And also one of our competitors." Sherlock noted to John.

William nodded.

"The very one. Right conceited bastard, he is. If anyone that would go crazy like that, it's him."

Sherlock straightened his coat and puffed out his chest a little.

"John, I do think it's time for us to go. Mr. William, if you will give any information you can to Detective Inspector Lestrade, this case will be solved and this lot will be out of your hair. My condolences." Sherlock rushed to say before deliberately turning on his heel and walking away briskly.

John turned and offered his hand to William, who took it as he looked on at Sherlock with a quirked eyebrow.

"And, you're this bloke's…umm…assistant?" William asked John, tilting his head slightly.

John smirked a bit.

"A lot more than 'assistant', actually."

Sherlock slid into the cab and leaned back into the seat peevishly. John took the initiative to give directions back to Baker Street as Sherlock stared at his mobile, furiously pecking away at the buttons, sending a message to Lestrade to let him know what they'd found out from William. John sat back and moved slightly closer to Sherlock. Why on earth the genius would be upset was beyond John, but there was something about Sherlock's face that gave away just enough to let John know that something was bothering him.

John slid his hand beside Sherlock's thigh and waited for his boyfriend to slide their hands together, as he usually did on cab rides.

It never happened.

John looked up to find Sherlock in his thinking pose, hands clasped beneath his chin, eyes closed.

"_Oh no_," John thought, "_not now_."

John gently rested his hand on Sherlock's upper thigh and watched Sherlock peep one eye down at him. After a moment, Sherlock's eye closed again and he breathed out a long-suffering sigh. Obviously, John's interference wasn't wanted.

John frowned and withdrew his hand. Alright then. He'd just have to physically pull Sherlock out of the cab when they finally got back to the flat. It wasn't the first time he'd had to do it. When the genius was thinking he was downright hard to manage.

A few minutes passed and Sherlock was completely oblivious to the fact that their arrival at Baker Street was imminent. John grunted as he paid for the fare and wrapped a hand around Sherlock's upper arm. Sherlock opened his eyes quickly, jerked away from John, and nearly ran his boyfriend down as he stalked darkly into the flat.

John glared after Sherlock but followed behind, finding himself and Sherlock, instead of going upstairs, going directlyto Baker Street's makeshift music studio.

Once they were in the room, the men were met with a few more boxes containing music. Most of them were elaborate pieces dedicated solely to piano and violin duets, while others were solely piano pieces. John spotted a few that he recognized upon riffling through one of the boxes while Sherlock paced the perimeter of the room, hands under his chin and a deep fury in his eyes.

Sherlock couldn't stop moving. He felt as if he were burning up inside, his chest on fire and his heart trying to claw out of his throat. If he were still, John would notice the slight tremble in his hands. There was only one other time that he'd felt this scorching blaze, and that was at Baskerville. There was no way that he'd been poisoned; this was natural, self-inflicted dread that came from nowhere and was highly illogical.

Sherlock was vaguely aware of John speaking behind him as he made another lap around the room.

"I think maybe we should stick to the ones you picked out. I can pick up on the music quickly enough and it's pretty familiar. Do you think we should start of soft and slowly meld into a crescendo? Perhaps not a piece that jumps from mezzo forte to mezzo piano every fourth bar. Those annoy me to no end; they aren't consistent enough. What do you think, love? Love?"

John stopped talking and watched as Sherlock walked straight to his violin and stared at it for several moments. John looked on in bafflement when Sherlock darkened his glare at three of his favored musical pieces and swiped his arm across them in a mighty swing, sending them scattering across the room.

"Oi, Sherlock!" John said as he moved towards his love, "What's wrong with you? That wasn't-"

Sherlock spun around and took John by the arms and drew him extremely close and kept a firm grip on his arms as his gaze flew all over John's face.

"Sherlock…?"

"John, I need you to forget everything we've practiced, and choose a piece that you want. I don't care how ridiculous or flamboyant it is, just choose music that you want. Something that you are familiar with. Just…choose something that makes you happy, John."

John tilted his head and carefully led Sherlock to sit on the bench beside him and he rubbed Sherlock's arms up and down. What was he going on about?

"Okay, love, calm down for a moment…and tell me what is going through your mind. Alright?"

Sherlock let out a frustrated breath, shot up from the seat, and began pacing the small space between the piano and his violin on the stand.

"John, there is no logical reason for me to feel this way, but I am worried, John. _Worried_." He spat, "This killer is taking out the competition one by one and both of the victims had something in common: they were committed to someone. Granted, Nora's fiancée had been dead for over a year, but she was still committed wholly to her. He's close to some of the competition. Tomorrow is the rehearsal and every living competitor will be there – he'll be there too. John, don't you see?"

Sherlock spun around and stalked to John and took him by the shoulders.

"He could possibly target _you_. I would lose you on a frankly bad note, probably after choosing a song you don't like, and I would never…I wouldn't be able to…" Sherlock closed his fists and tried to suppress the awful dread and anger that rose in his chest, despite none of these thoughts being valid or logical.

John pulled Sherlock into his lap and wrapped his arms tightly around the agitated man. Stress was getting to him, it was apparent. No matter how brilliant Sherlock was to everyone, John knew the human side to him, and very few people do well with competitions within a three day time span – let alone trying to solve a murder along-side it. John gently rubbed Sherlock's arms and kissed his upper arm as the younger man sat stark still with his chin lowered to his chest. John pressed his head against' his love's shoulder and held him close. Sherlock really wasn't good at emotions, so John had to steer him in the right direction.

"Sherlock, there's no need for you to worry about me. I can fight if I have to, Scotland Yard will be there, and I will have you with me. We're going to be alright." John turned Sherlock's chin so he could meet his eyes, "Okay?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a mighty breath, "Alright."

John planted a tender kiss on his detective's lips and pulled him in tighter. After a few moments of comfort, Sherlock peeled himself away and caressed John's face before walking over to the box of music pieces.

"What exactly do you have in mind, John?" Sherlock asked in a low voice.

A moment later, strong arms were sliding around his waist and a firm chest was pressed warm against his back. Sherlock let out a breath and rested his arms atop John's arms. Warm breath tickled his ear and Sherlock closed his eyes against the open mouthed kiss on his neck.

"I have the perfect song in mind," John whispered, "all I need you to do is follow me."


End file.
